like an apocalypse—like the last
days, we see pestilence. our dearest eschatology—our beliefs, hopes, and
fretting.
the heart-piano is wavy and
wild—hushed by myriad concerns—the writer has much to earn.
we must protect the whales—the
advertisement says.
hungry souls, seeking to be
indemnified—for purpose of breath, savannah dust, utter salutation—by something
inside. miracle if it comes. salvation sounds permanent. we dispute properties,
performance, and palaces.
baskets full of bread. the people
satisfied. they follow to eat.
the reasons are evident: I’m
unsteady—liquified—filled with ups and downs.
each sentence. each valley. they
paint and polish skies for dreams.
there’s an observation in us—the
need to be complete, versus the imbalance; the desire to feel complete, versus
what takes place beneath the skin.
seeking survival, at the evil
train, feeling like dusk in the night. hoping it will be good again. it’s never
the same though.
catastrophes and names.
appellations and taxonomy. pains and blues. skies and dungeons. pleasures and
remorse.
unredeemed qualities. pavement and
sediments. the ride goes on until the gates are met.
the slaughterhouse the past life,
the future gambling, distorted, everything is influenced by humans (that’s
messing with me).
casual goodbyes—the bridges
bending, somber over the loses.
a soul spends his life either lucky
or traveling through swamps—even then—if it looks accommodated, others will
cause the suffering, adding to the menacing fates.
the coyote is feeling sad today,
chasing the hell out of his brains.
